


Don't Try This At Home

by MadameHardy



Category: Revengers Tragedy (2003)
Genre: Implied Incest, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameHardy/pseuds/MadameHardy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year or so before the movie begins  Lussurioso and Ambitioso have a chat.   Modern English; no attempts made at verse or Jacobean language.  No explicit sex, but canon-based subtext is all over the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Try This At Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alchemine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alchemine/gifts).



I burst into Lussurioso’s apartments uninvited. I had some exciting event to impart -- I cannot remember what, and in any case it never turned out to be important, not to me and certainly not to him.

Lussurioso stood with his back to me, leaning into a looking-glass with a brush in his hand. He turned at the sound of my steps.

"Do you like it?" He had smeared his eyelids with kohl. It worked.

"You look like a whore."

"Yes."

"Father will hate it."

"You are absolutely correct."

I was a minim behind the measure, as usual. "You want Father to hate it."

He lifted a corner of his mouth; not a smile, but as much as he was willing to grant me, his supplicant, his student. "I want many things. But, for the moment, yes, that." He turned back to the glass, dropping the brush on the floor and stretched, watching his reflection. "I'm sure women will love it."

"What?"

"To ape their whoring more excellently than they whore themselves? To tutor them in techniques of which they fancy themselves mistresses? To step backward in the dance, thus forcing them forward? Oh, I think they'll like it very much."

It was Lussurioso; I knew he was right. When I was younger I always knew Lussurioso was right. Sometimes I miss that certainty.

Still facing the glass, Lussurioso addressed my reflection in the mirror, trying the effect of the new look, glancing sideways through his lashes. “Do you have plans?”

Of course I didn’t. Not when he asked.

“Call the car, then. I’ll be there shortly.”

###

 

We got into the car. Lussurioso sprawled into his corner, knees wide apart, legs stretched out before him. I took the opposite corner. As the car pulled away, I nerved myself, then stretched and spread my own legs, a knee brushing his. He didn’t object; he didn’t return the pressure either.

The car pulled up, not at Regrets or Thousand-Yard Stare or d’Ambois or any of his usuals, but at a tobacconist’s. Lussurioso waited for the driver to open the door, then got out and strolled down the iron staircase down to the basement. The windows were boarded up and covered with graffiti. I looked automatically for Father’s tag; it wasn’t there. The door was scratched steel with the usual dents. Brothel or crack den or both? Lussurioso’s face gave nothing away. I followed him down the stairs. Lussurioso knocked once on the door; a peep slid open, then shut. The door opened a crack, just wide enough for one. Lussurioso ostentatiously waved me in; I stepped back and he laughed and led the way.

The place was dark, dank, and full of ragbag commoners. The only light came from fairy lights nailed in rows along the ceiling and on the edge of the bar. The air stank of stale beer and sweat and a whiff of onion. Lussurioso’s humor often ran to slumming; I wondered whether we should have brought the guard. But the doorkeepers had known Lussurioso’s face; if they’d wanted to kill him, they’d have done it on a previous visit. If _Lussurioso_ meant to kill me here, well… Mother wouldn’t like it. And what Mother dislikes, Father punishes.

Lussurioso walked up to the barman. He straightened and brushed his hands down his stained shirt. “My lord?”

“Have you heard anything about that girl?”

The barman shook his head. Apparently “that girl” needed no further name nor explanation.

Lussurioso, unfazed, rolled his shoulders. “Two Sellafield curries, then. And six of your specials, two now, the rest when you’ve had time to wipe the glasses.”

The barman didn’t twitch a hair, just said “Yes, m’lord,” and shouted “Two curries!” over his shoulder.

Lussurioso dropped a handful of coins on the bar, then walked away without the drinks. As always, the barman would make time to bring them; it’s the least they can do when serving the family.

My eyes had adjusted a bit; I could just make out booths against the wall, banged together from scavenged lumber and bits of furniture. At Lussurioso’s glance, the corner booth was vacated, ragbags grabbing their glasses and scuttling away. We settled into the booth, backs against the wall as per usual. I glanced around the room, but none of the ragbags met my eyes. Lussurioso was surveying the room himself.

The barman came to the table with all six shots on a tray. He pulled a rag out of his trouser pocket and wiped the tabletop down. The rag was filthy, but it certainly couldn’t make the cigarette-melted plastic any worse. The barman set down the shots and left. I wondered how the ‘special’ would be divided; Lussurioso had a head of iron and a stomach to match.

He grinned maliciously, reading my thoughts. “Fifty-fifty, dear brother. Equal shares. You’ll like it.” _You’ll like whatever I give_ he left unspoken, but clear enough for all that.

“Why this cesspit?”

“No spies; at least, none who can hear us over the din.”

I glanced over the room again, a quick sweep. I didn’t know all Mother’s spies, far less Father’s, but certainly nobody was in earshot; I could scarcely hear Lussurioso myself, and I was next him, packed tight as brothers.

Lussurioso raised his glass to his mouth. Kohl-shadowed eyes intent on the crowd, he said, "He won't, you know."

"What?"

"Not me, not you, not Supervacuo, nor any of the bitch's get."

I let the slur on Mother pass; I’ve said worse myself. I sipped the spirit to gain time, then choked and coughed in spite of myself. It was raw, fresh out of the car battery no doubt. Lussurioso watched my face in amusement as he knocked his back in one, no heeltaps. There was a commotion in the back of the house; the barman had grabbed two plates from a girl just coming out of the kitchen and she wasn’t pleased. Back to the subject. “Father’s got to —”

"Don't be a fool.” Lussurioso jerked his chin at the approaching barman and I shut up.

The barman set down two chipped plates and left. The “Sellafields” lived up to their name; the spices caught you at the back of the throat, threatening long-term consequences. I wondered if mine had been improved by the kitchen; easy to mask the taste, easier still to dose one plate and not the other. Lussurioso smiled mockingly at me, bowed in his seat, flicked his fork over to my plate, and took a bite. I took a bite from his, making no attempt to copy Lussurioso’s affected grace. I had tried that, once. I had tried everything once.

The barman gone, Lussurioso continued from where he’d left off.

“He only cares for what happens in his lifetime. He wants us dancing on a string. After he dies? Let the world end. He jerks off thinking about the bloodbath after his death."

"He hates Supervacuo and Junior. He won’t want to see --”

"He hates Spurio, me, and of course you too. He hates anyone who’s got a chance to outlive him." Lussurioso knocked back another.

"He can't --"

"He can. He will. Think of it. The four of us — six if you count Spurio and Junior -- prancing and capering and groveling for his favor. Utterly subservient to his whim. Then, after he dies? Chaos."

"And so--"

"And so we set our own traps. We won't get the Dukedom. We won't get anything. We must grasp what we can get while he still lives."

He polished off his last glass, then looked at me. “Free advice, brother. Worth what it cost.”

Why had he wasted an afternoon and a private hideaway on this? I thought, looking for some rumor to pay him back; to prove myself his equal, an expert of political intrigue. I could only think of one bit of gossip, and that one I wanted to keep away from him.

I drained my third glass. Lussurioso sat silent, still, eyelashes shuttering his face. I had to give him something. Anything.

In spite of myself, in spite of all my intention to be suave and polished, the worst possibility slipped out of my mouth. “Have you seen how Mother looks at Junior?”

He snorted at the offering, not bothering to hide his contempt.

“Yes, and I’ve seen how Father looks at Spurio, and how Supervacuo looks at you, and how all the infants look at each other. We tried all those combinations as kiddies, and it wasn’t as amusing as you’d think. Is that what you’re offering?”

I pulled out my knife.

The bastard began laughing. “Put it away, we’ve both seen it, remember?”

I wanted to run my knife up his arse. He knows that. He likes knowing.

“Cheap goods, brother. Cheap and well-fingered. If you want me again, bring me something I can use.”

He was on his feet and making for the door before I could reply. The crowd parted for him, then shut me in. I elbowed my way through but it cost time. I got to the car just as Lussurioso, already seated, was saying “Drive on” and the motor was revving.

I pounded on the roof, shouting “Let me in, damn you!” The driver weighed his loyalties for a long moment, then stopped. He didn’t know who would win, and he wasn’t making bets. I took some comfort from that.

This time when Lussurioso spread out his knees I sat upright against the corner. He laughed; he knew he’d won, ten-nil. We sat in silence as the streets flickered past. The driver pulled up, opened the door, and we walked up the stairs to the palace.

Lussurioso tossed over his shoulder, “Remember, you owe me news, and fresh.” He made for his quarters; this time I didn’t follow. Instead I made for the infants’ room. It was not the most profitable of afternoons, but I did learn one thing from Lussurioso.

It’s useful to have a younger brother.

**Author's Note:**

> Unexpected nuclear explosion!
> 
> Thank you to Mithrigil, AJHall, and Violetinbloom for repeated betas, Britpicking, and moral support; thanks especially to AJHall, who came up with (as it were) the Sellafield curries.


End file.
